


Gloria

by eag



Series: Fortunae Plango Vulnera [8]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Capable learns about Nux, Cheedo and the Dag, Friendship, Furiosa finally has that talk with the Ace, Gen, Loneliness, Loss, Love, Max Returns, Max and Furiosa are together, Max sees the future, Nux and Capable, Other, Survival, The Ace survives, The Dag keeps the seeds, War Boy Society, War Boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4521300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall of Immortan Joe, the Dag befriends an old crippled War Boy on the farm high atop the War Tower.  However, life for everyone is about to change with the return of Max and his warnings of a future that they may not be able to avert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Follows characters, themes, and imagery from other stories in this series. Currently on hiatus as I write [Ekstasis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5715316/chapters/13167568), which fills in the three years leading up to Fury Road, beginning with the the early days of Furiosa's reign as Imperator.

When they drew up jobs and the fair division of labor, the Dag ended up supervising the War Tower farm, the biggest and oldest farm of the Citadel, and currently the least productive, despite feeding the majority of the War Boys and the War Pups. That was fine with her; though rusty and out of use, she had never forgotten the early skills she had learned in life. Raised by Botanists, the Dag had never forgotten the vocabulary of grafting and seed dispersal and hand-pollination, though sometimes she had trouble remember specific genus names and species. But as she went along, she found herself remembering pieces of it here and there, bits of knowledge submerged in the depths of memory that she thought had been lost so many years ago.

“Artemisia.” She sang under her breath as she walked along the steep terraces, minding her step and minding the War Boys. “Brassica and Sinapis.” Her voice was still strange to her, but not her muddy boots and her clay-whitened skin; a time long time ago she once played War Boy for a tense hour, and somehow the charm of it had never quite worn off, despite what they had represented. But here on the farm it was reasonable to wear the white like any other War Boy; it kept off the glaring sun and it was easy to wash up afterwards. Besides that, it seemed to give her more respect among the War Boys. Some were even growing their hair out now, in imitation.

She had a crew of War Boys to supervise, the kind known as Organics. Most were boys too young to have been in the fight (and how many hundreds of days had it been since that awful run?), but there was one who had been sent up from the workshops below, a cripple. He had been a strong man once and was still powerfully muscled, but he moved slowly, his step halting and awkward from a bad fall.

He had skills beyond the crowd of boys that helped up at the farms; he could fix the windmills when they broke, carried baskets of produce too heavy for the boys to lift on their own, and shifted large barrels of water, though he could only go as fast as his bad leg would allow. Once he helped design and build a drip irrigation system when the Dag explained to him what she wanted; she had the War Boys expanding the terraces higher, opening up more arable land. 

The Dag liked working with him; he never needed to be told twice how to do anything, and kept the boys hard-working and disciplined, even though she had never asked it of him.

Today she found him weeding; he was digging out stubborn-clinging roots with a broken pair of needle-nosed pliers.

“Hey, you're pretty good at that.”

He looked up at her, and she wondered what he was thinking behind those dark goggles that hid his eyes. She paused, wondering if she should stay; they had never really spoken before, but then his skew-set jaw shifted, and he nodded his thanks.

“Used to be that I weeded War Pups too. Sorted out the good ones from the bad.” The man went back to work, bent over the greenery that was struggling for life, every plant in its own silent war against its neighbor.

 

After that day, they began to talk more. She found out he lived alone in a sod house on the farm, a dry, dark cavern where roots sunk their long tendrils down through the ceiling and there was not much more than a stone-carved bed with a few thin blankets and an old kerosene lamp for light. The other War Boys took the twisting, stone-carved stairs down into the warren to sleep and eat, but he couldn't make the long walk every day with his bad leg. Even the terraces themselves were hard on him, and she could count his breaths against hers, double or triple when they walked together up and down the paths.

“How come you're up here?”

He patted his leg gingerly. “Crippled on a run. That's what life hands you. Years riding at the left hand of an Imperator, high above the rest... One bad fall means it's all over. Got lucky though; used to be a War Boy as crippled as me might end down in the Waste, sent down to join the Wretched. Suppose it depended on how the Organic Mechanic felt that day.” He smiled wryly to himself. “Bad mood, and he'll stamp you defective, get you turned off.”

“Being hurt doesn't make you defective,” The Dag offered reasonably, but the War Boy shrugged. 

“Don't work, don't eat. That's the law.” 

“Can't is different from not wanting to though.”

“Not the way we was taught.”

 

They sat together, watching the fading sun and the rising ghost moon; it would be light out for another hour or more, but work had long since stopped for the day and they were alone up on the farms. The War Boy looked at his hands, hard-calloused and black with soil.

“Ain't you got supper to go to? Someone's gonna be missin you.”

“I told them I'd be late. How about you?” 

“Ain't got no one waitin for me. The pups bring me up some fresh dried food bars every few days, and there's plenty of Ah-...plenty of water to drink.”

“When then oranges come in, you can have one. In fact, you could have two. Or three.”

“Maybe, but that'd be stealin,” the War Boy said simply.

“As Admiral of the War Farm, I'm personally giving you permission.” 

“Admiral?” The War Boy gave her a skeptical look.

“I'm not really the admiral of anything. It just sounded fun. But I'm serious, you can have some oranges if you want. Just don't forget to save the seeds and bury the peels.”

The War Boy shrugged.

The Dag sighed, smelling the sun-baked scents of the earth, of the herbs and the fresh-clipped greens, and the sweet scent of flowering orange trees. “I suppose you're right. It would have been sensible and sensical to join everyone for supper, but truly, I wanted to see what it was like for that ferocious orb of fire and light to return to darkness from here.”

“Yeah?”

“And what it was like to talk to an old War Boy, one who remembers the old days.”

“What's that like?”

“Reliable,” the Dag smiled. “I like it.”

She ventured a peek at him; he was smiling, faintly to himself, a wistful, dreamy expression, and then he pushed off his goggles and she could see his pale gray eyes.

“I like it too.”


	2. Chapter 2

One day she brought the baby, slung against her breast in a black woolen sling, shaded by a gauzy veil. It was awkward going at times but safe as greenhouses; the Dag's step was strong and sure, her body strengthened from days and days of walking the Citadel and working the farms.

About midday when the sun was too bright to work by, the Dag took a break. She found herself a shady patch of green underneath an orange tree, feeding the baby from a bottle of mother's milk warmed against her skin.

“Didn't know you had a baby.”

“I don't. I'm just minding her for a friend.” The Dag smiled up at him. “I thought I had a baby once, but it turned out that it was a false alarm.”

“Didn't know you could have a false alarm.” The War Boy looked surprised, tilting his head as he tried to puzzle it through. “How's that work?”

“You stop bleedin.” The Dag explained. “So you and everyone else thinks that there's a baby inside, Warlord Junior. But then it turns out that you just stopped bleedin, maybe forever. So no Warlord Junior. Guess I was lucky though. He would have been so ugly.”

“Yeah. Guess so.” The War Boy looked at her curiously for a moment, and she beckoned him to sit with her. He sat down carefully, minding his leg, and far enough away so that he wouldn't accidentally touch her. 

“Though I guess that means that there's no the Dag Junior, either. Maybe never.” The Dag said thoughtfully, tapping her chin.

“'sat your name? The Dag?” The War Boy pushed off his goggles, wiping his hands clean on a red scrap of cloth on his belt. 

“Yeah. What about you?”

“Used to be called the Ace.” The Ace watched the baby clutch at the bottle, little hands fumbling at the glass.

“Pleased to meet you, the Ace.”

“Pleased to meet you, the Dag.” The Ace rested his hands on his knees. “So how old's the baby?”

“I think she's about two hundred days, give or take. I'll remember to ask Furiosa when she gets back from Bartertown. For obvious reasons, she keeps better count than me.”

“Furiosa?” The Ace asked softly.

“Yeah. Glory's mum.” The Dag said simply. “Gloria in excelsis,” she sang to the baby. “Adoramus te. Benedictus, qui venit in nomine...”

“Glory.” The Ace's breath caught, and he briefly clutched his side, as if in pain.

“You all right, the Ace?”

“Sure, sure.” Jagged breathing evened out, and he managed something like a smile to show her he was all right, though it didn't quite make it to his eyes. “Just an old pain.”

 

“What's she doing these days? Furiosa.” The Ace asked, one day. Glory toddled along the narrow path, her hand clutching the Dag's tight. 

“Working, a lot. Probably too much. It took her a long time to heal and then she had the baby, and I think she still gets pains sometimes from those old hurts, even though she won't say. On top of getting stabbed, twice really, she broke some ribs in a fight with an Imperator, back when we ran for it. The Prime, I think.” The Dag said. “Schlanger stomped her and cracked some of her ribs. Oops, I shouldn't say that in front of the baby.”

“Work? What kind?”

“Rebuilding, mostly. They've salvaged the War Rig; we're now good trading partners with the Rock Riders. She let them keep most everything they picked up but we got the War Rig back now, and all the cars that could be salvaged.”

“Trade partners?” The Ace gave her a skeptical look.

“Yeah, the salt comes through that mountain pass. The Vuvalini have been trade partners with them for ages and ages, trading the salt through the mountains. Now we're running the salt direct to Bartertown with the Vuvalini.”

“What about Bulletfarm? Gastown?”

“Under new management,” the Dag grinned. “Furiosa knows their surviving Imperators and they know they can't last on their own without the Citadel feeding and watering them. Much less running the trade.”

“She didn't go to war with them?”

“Nah, it was bloodless. They know which side their bread is buttered on.” As they came closer to the stairs, the Dag picked Glory up and swung the child up onto her hip.

“Is she...well?” Here, the Ace paused, eyeing the steps and politely, the Dag stopped to give him some time to rest before they started their ascent.

“As well as a person who works from before dawn to past nightfall is. She still drives the War Rig. Every trade run, she does herself. Capable manages the War Boys, Cheedo does the accounting, Toast rides crew lead, and a bunch of War Boys ride escort. It's intense business. I've seen them leave for Bartertown before...almost reminds me of when they were chasing us with their booming guns and their flaming guitars. Guitar.”

“She's good at picking out a good team.” 

“Yeah? You know Furiosa? From before?”

The Ace shrugged and changed the subject. “You think we should put in some fruit vines up on the new level?”

“Grapes? That might be nice. You can eat the leaves too, if they're salted. We have some seeds.”

“Why don't we get some seeds started?”

“They're too delicate to stick in the ground direct, even in the enriched soil. I think we'll need a greenhouse.”

The Ace gave her a quizzical look. “Green...house? Like...” He pointed to the sod house. “Like that, but green?”

“No, no. Like.” And on the dusty path, she knelt down, Glory's tiny fingers tangled in her long pale hair, and she drew out a schematic, a rough one. “Like this, but the windows are glass. We've been thinking of using the Vault, but it's too cold and dry, and it doesn't get enough sunlight, not during the proper times of day.”

“Does it have to be glass?”

“No, not really, but it's nice to be able to see through it.”

“Does it have to be proper clear?” The Ace frowned, puzzling it out.

“Not really. Slightly opaque is fine. Just so that the light of the sun can come in and the plants are sheltered from the wind and the dry. Actually opaque would probably be best; we don't want too much sun.”

“Seems to me that polyurethane sheet would do the job, just as simple, without the trouble and expense of makin so much glass” the Ace suggested. “Take some strips of scrap, bang it out down in the shops to size, bolt and weld it on-site and we set the panels with the caulking that's used in the shop for car windows and the like. They make it in Gastown and we trade for it by the tub, at the rate of five dekas of beans per three deka tub. Don't pay more than seven dekas; it ain't worth that much and if they're jackin up the price on you, you tell 'em you know it ain't worth more 'n seven dekas at most. Now, prototype's the hardest to design and build, but after we get an idea of how to put it together, they can be mass-produced if you want more.”

“Where are we going to find everything?”

“Down in the shops. Big load of polyurethane sheeting stored in the Third Tower that'll probably never be used if we don't use it for this. Ask Tran about it, and if he's not around anymore, you just ask for Skew, Grom, or Pom. Failin that try Bluey. Tall Bluey, not Short Bluey.” The Ace rattled off another list of names for the Dag, various War Boys that could do the metal work and the welding, and the War Pups who could source all the screws and bolts needed.

She laughed suddenly. “Why aren't you down there? You'd be great at helping us organize the War Boys and the shops. Capable could really use a crew lead, like an Imperator maybe...”

“Ain't room among War Boys for a broken War Boy,” the Ace said, closing his mouth with a snap, and she knew that here, he could not be budged.

 

The Dag brought up sheets of paper, a metal quill pen, ink, and large piece of the polyurethane sheet so he could gauge its weight and they could use it as a drawing table. Together, under the shade of the orange tress, they designed the greenhouse. At first, he seemed unused to holding the writing implement, but soon he got the hang of it and with some practice, wrote with an unusually fine hand, drawing precise, straight lines.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Oh, a long time ago, when I was a boy. Haven't used it in ages, full out of practice, but I suppose you don't ever lose the knack.” The Ace gestured, pen in hand, and as he did so, Glory took the pen right out of his hand.

“Hey there, Miss Glory. That's rude, is what that is.” The Ace sounded amused.

Giggling, Glory waved the pen in the air. Droplets of ink went flying, and the Ace leaned over the papers to protect them, ink spattering black on his rough, whitened skin.

“Oh, Glory...” The Dag tisked, but as the ink ran out, the Ace turned and expertly he slipped the pen out of the child's hand, replacing it with a small metal tool before she could cry.

“What's that?”

“Just a hex key,” the Ace said, and he smiled a little as Glory contented herself with waving the hex key around, the silvery metal shining in the light.


	3. Chapter 3

The Ace was supervising construction on the greenhouse when the Dag brought a visitor. 

He called for a break as soon as it was feasible; the greenhouse was being built at the very top of the War Tower, and so as the War Boys scattered to rest, he came and met them down on a lower terrace where they could rest in the shade of the cliff.

“Capable, this is the War Boy I was telling you about,” the Dag introduced them. “The Ace.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The Ace ducked his head politely. 

Capable nodded, looking him over. “I hear you're an expert at War boy affairs.”

“Been one most my life,” the Ace shrugged. “Even before we was War Boys proper.”

Capable exchanged a look with the Dag. “I'd like to know a few things, just some simple business, if you don't mind.”

“Nah, not at all.” They sat on a ledge of stone in the shade, and from here they could see the vast expanse of the waste. A little dusty plume kicked up in the distance beyond the borders of the Citadel, and it was perhaps a lone road warrior, or the trail of the day patrol. It was too far away to tell.

“There's a War Boy called Slit who says a War Boy named Bucket is spreading dissent around the shops, trying to get people to go against Furiosa.”

“Slit? Scarred face on both sides, worst is on the left? Three metal staples. Tumor on this side, like me.” The Ace tapped his own neck lightly. “'cept at the base of his ear.” 

Capable and the Dag glanced at each other, and Capable shook her head. “No scars, other than the brand.”

“Green eyes?”

“Blue.”

“Tall? Short? Thin or thick?”

“About average, I should say.”

“How old, you think?”

“Twenty, maybe? Um.” Capable noticed the Ace's puzzled look and quickly converted into days. “Sorry, 7300 days or so.”

“Ah. Sounds like it could be one of four or five Revheads. Probably Lug, who's a filthy liar and would love a chance at not being shopbound forever. First of all, he didn't make Revhead til he was nearly 6800 days old, which makes him the oldest War Pup in memory; second, he can barely be trusted to mind the Treadmill Rats; third, he only made Revhead because he's got a knack for inflating tires; last, he'd say anything about anyone to get a promotion. Bucket's a good Driver who works hard, minds his business, and keeps his head down. Don't you listen to anything that Lug says about him or anyone else. Not sure how Lug's gettin away with calling himself Slit, unless he thinks you're stupid or the real one's dead. Both, maybe.”

“Those scars...” The Dag sighed. “That sounds familiar.”

“I think I would remember seeing someone like that around the Citadel. Unfortunately, I can't say I have.” Capable shook her head.

“Then probably the real Slit's dead. Don't listen to any War Boy that'll turn on his own,” the Ace continued. “We got laws to abide by, and that don't include ratting out each other. You send him to me; I'll set him straight.”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” Capable said. “What about Blackthumbs? Who are the best?”

“Well, depends on what you need, really. Body work, engine work, art...” The Ace shrugged. “Anything specific?”

They talked along these lines for a while, until the Ace started looking around to see what his crew of workers was up to, and eventually Capable drew the conversation to a close; she had gathered enough information.

“Thank you for your time, Ace.” 

The Ace ducked his head, and folded his fingers politely into the V8. “Anytime you got a question, you come ask. Gotta get back to work now.” He left without another word, limping back up the steps toward the top of the War Tower, shouting for his crew to return to work.

“That went well,” Capable nodded, after the Ace left. “Everything he said was accurate.”

“How do you know?”

“I knew it all in advance. I wanted to gauge his answers.”

“Really? All of it?”

Capable nodded. “All of it. I even know who Slit is. Was. I wanted to see if your War Boy was honest, and if he knew what he was talking about.”

“I think we can trust him, Capable. He, who has seen more than his fair share.”

“I think so too.”

 

Capable began regular meets with the Ace, often at the end of the day when work was winding down and War Boys were going down for supper and rest.

He endeavored to stay out of politics; one time when she asked him what he thought of the new regime, he brushed it off.

“Citadel's always had a leader. Wasn't gonna be Immortan Joe forever, no matter what the stories say.”

“Stories?”

“They've gotten out of hand over the years. Stories grow with the tellin, I guess. Stopped talkin about it myself ages ago; don't like to remember those days.” And he told Capable about the oranges, to make her laugh.

“So then Joe comes down off the War Tower, on the long rope, winching himself down. Course back then we called it the Pillar. Then it became the Tower, and then the War Boys' Tower, and then the War Tower. So Joe, he's got an orange in his hand, waving it around. So some kid starts yellin 'he is the one who grabbed the sun' and it stuck. He brought us all oranges; we ate 'em down fast.”

“What a story. And here, the way the boys talked, I thought that it was something else, something supernatural.”

“It was superhuman. You try climbin the War Tower with nothin but some metal spikes and a real long piece of rope. Took him all day. He was a hero.” 

“When did that change?”

The Ace shook his head. “Don't know if I can rightly answer that.”

“You don't have to. Sorry, I don't mean to offend you.”

“Nah, it's fine. Just never asked myself that question,” the Ace said. “Gonna have to get back to you on it.”

“Please think it over. I understand; it's a very strange thing to ask a War Boy, but I think it's an important question to consider. I've been asking most everyone questions, to get them thinking.” She smiled at him, just faintly. “You know, when I was a girl, I could never have imagined my life like this. I thought I'd grow up to build roads and bridges, just like my folks.”

The Ace's brow raised and he gave her a look. “You come from Engineer folks?”

“Yes. How...how did you know?” Capable blinked.

“My folks were Engineers too. We worked water systems and wells, pumping with windmills. Came from the west, far west. Days and days run though I don't know how many.”

Her eyes widened. “I...did as well. When I was stolen.”

“We left on account of the water goin sour. Came east lookin for Walhalla.”

“Valhalla?” Capable looked puzzled.

“That's what they called it, Walhalla. A real place. A green place, a valley up in the mountains.” The Ace gestured. “Never made it there. Guess we was unlucky.”

“It reminds me of a story I heard from my mother, a long time ago.” Capable hugged herself. “That many of the families they knew when she was very small had packed up and left for a better place because the water went bad. Her family stayed because her mother was heavily pregnant with my uncle and couldn't risk the run. But they found a new well near the settlement, a better spring and it saved them.”

“Maybe that was us.” The Ace shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“Our house was gray, and it had a big carved table. The doors opened to the south, and during storm days we'd hide down in the basement.” Capable said, describing it. “My parents found it empty and moved in. There was a rusted out car out back, just an old piece of junk.”

“We had a house like that, maybe.” The Ace thought absently. “But it could be any settlements anywhere.” He gave her a little smile, and reached out to pat her shoulder, but then hesitated.

“It's all right.” She put her hand on his shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze in the way of the War Boys. “I'm not sacrosanct anymore. Not that I really ever was. We're all in this together.”

The Ace put his hand on her shoulder as well, giving her a friendly squeeze. “Glad to know Engineer folk are still around, out there somewhere.”

“I don't really count anymore, do I?” Capable smiled a little. “I was never really fully trained. About all I remember is to grade roads, how to calculate load, and where to put the keystone on a classical arch. Not much more than that.”

“Maybe not, but you're still buildin bridges, ain't you?”


	4. Chapter 4

Both the Dag and Capable agreed; it seemed that the old War Boy smiled more now, was more open to conversation. Sometimes he told them little stories of the past. Stories about old Imperators long dead, about life out in the western settlement far away. About old Bartertown runs where it seemed impossible that anyone could have survived. They didn't ask about the long run he had mentioned, or some of the circumstances of how the Citadel was founded. It seemed like a sensitive topic, one that he never spoke about.

Sometimes the Dag joined them and the three of them would split an orange, saving the seeds in a little container to be dried and planted at a later date. Sometimes Glory would join them, and they would teach her words. She could say 'Mama' now, and something that almost sounded like 'the Dag' though perhaps it was more like 'dadag'. 'Ace' was a high pitched shriek of a word, and 'Capable' was currently beyond her abilities.

Glory crawled or toddled about, teetering on unsure feet, and they made sure to keep her between them, guiding her back to the center whenever she wandered. The Ace was very careful not to let her run too far from them, gently blocking her with his arm, guiding her so that she stayed between the three adults. Otherwise he never so much as touched her; he never asked and the Dag never offered; that was an understanding they had.

But then one day on her own, Glory went flying into his arms, settling in his lap and for a moment, the Ace sat amazed, tense, unsure of what to do. Quickly he came to himself and immediately began rearranging the tools in his belt, so that they wouldn't hurt her, moving things out of the way, out of her reach. He unhooked a small silver canister and set it aside; Capable recognized that as the Chrome. So whoever he was, he had been a Driver or a Lancer, maybe even a Half-life Noble, she thought, ranked high enough to deserve carrying the way to mark his path into Valhalla.

“You better take her. And wipe off the white.” The Ace said to the Dag.

“It's all right. She'll get filthy anyway; I'll wash her up later.” Both Capable and the Dag kept their eyes on him, but he was gentle with her, despite his obvious inexperience. Glory patted his chest, squeaking with excitement, smudging the white around so that his skin showed underneath and with it the many lines of scars from years of battle.

“Have you ever seen a baby before?” Capable asked, curious.

“Once, a long time ago. When I was a boy. Not since then.” The Ace looked down at Glory, eyes warm and thoughtful. “War Pups come to us weaned and walking, privy trained; no less than a thousand days old for the littlest.”

“I've heard something like that before,” Capable said to the Dag. “It makes sense from what I've heard.”

“You're the youngest I've seen, young Glory.” The Ace addressed the baby gravely. “You had better live up to your mother's reputation. You know she went from a War Pup to a full Lancer riding escort with the War Rig in less than five hundred days? A lot less. Most people, even talented ones, take more 'n two thousand to do the same. You gonna grow up to be a Lancer too? Half-life Noble? Imperator?” 

“Very funny,” the Dag said dryly. “I'm not sure her mother would approve of this sort of talk...”

“What about your father, Glory? Was he a Driver? A Lancer? A Half-life Noble? You got a lot to live up to, don't you, Miss Glory?”

Capable and the Dag looked at each other, exchanging an unsure look; this was straying into dangerous territory.

“We don't know.” Capable began, trying to be polite.

“Actually no one knows. Furiosa won't say.” The Dag said bluntly.

“Ah, that's a shame. I bet he was a good man, whoever he was.” The Ace picked Glory up and set her on his shoulders. The Ace stood up, towering, his hand gently steadied the child. “She told me once she couldn't have any babies, that she had dried up inside, and now look at this one, perfect and healthy, a full-life for all her days to be sure. Our Furiosa who has always done the impossible and will always be the best of War Boys.”

Glory squealed with delight as she was raised up, and patted his darkened head with her palms.

 

In the shade of the orange trees they sat taking the morning meal together, partway through the work day. Capable had brought them up some fresh food, stuff that had been cooked in the Immortan's Tower, and insisted that the Ace put away his dried food bars and join them. The Ace was surprised to see how the meal was arranged; everything cooked separately, with different flavors instead of the undifferentiated mush the War Boys normally ate. They had fresh greens, coarsely chopped and sprinkled with salt, a scatter of sunflower seeds topping a fragrant herb-scented stew of lentils and soy beans, and slices of sweet roasted pumpkin. The Ace took small bites, savoring every mouthful.

He ate gratefully, surprised to have been included in the meal; the Dag and Capable exchanged thoughtful looks; they were going to have to improve food all around for everyone, perhaps starting with him. The War Boy mush had to be changed.

“Ah, this is good. Haven't eaten like this in years and years. Since.” And the Ace set down the spoon, his awkwardly-set jaw tightening. “Since...”

He had to stop. Setting the food aside, he pressed his hands to his face briefly, and the Dag could see a tear cut through the white, dripping down his face.

“Sorry.” The Ace took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, blinking. He dabbed his eyes briefly with his shop rag, expertly, not even smudging the white.

“Don't be sorry.” Capable was closest; she put her arms around his shoulders, drawing him close. “It's all right. Whoever you lost...whatever has happened in the past, you have us now.”

The Ace sighed, resting his head briefly against hers, before drawing back, afraid that he had stained her with the white.

Bits of white clung to her crimson hair, her hands and her fingertips, but she took his soil-stained hands anyway, giving his calloused hand a squeeze.

“You're one of us now.” Capable said, simply. “We're in this together. You're part of our family now.”

“Been a long time since I heard those words.” The Ace said thoughtfully, gray eyes full of melancholy. “And even longer since I ate food like this. My...my Poppa used to cook like this. A long time ago, before the long run. We'd eat at the table every night for supper. Mum would tell us about the day's work, how she'd make sure the water flowed to the farms, making sure the pressure was even and the drip systems gave just enough. And Frances...”

The Ace caught his breath. “She really loved pumpkin. Her favorite food.” He smiled sadly to himself.

“What happened to them?”

“Died in a storm on the long, awful run.” The Ace's eyes were filled with unshed tears. “Never said goodbye to them, not properly. Was a long three days alone while it raged, but that's the way life works; people come and go, and you can't even try to hold onto 'em, no matter how much you want to. Seen a lot of death in my time, all my folks and all my peers. Ain't no one around anymore that remembers any of those days, especially not now that the Immortan and his retinue are dead.”

The Dag took his hand, twining her fingers with his, holding his broad, calloused hand between both of hers. “I'm sorry. I'll pray for them.”

“Too late for prayers, the Dag. Been too late since before you were born.”

“It won't hurt.”

“But it won't help.” The Ace said reasonably, but he didn't pull his hand away.


	5. Chapter 5

It took Capable a long time to gather up the courage to ask him about Nux. Part of her didn't want to know; she didn't want to taint her memories of Nux with what he might have been before she met him. War Boy, Revhead, Blackthumb...these were all concepts that she had learned about more fully after his death. She never knew what his life was like before they met; he never had said much about it, other than that he worked hard and trained for long hours. She thought perhaps he had been sparing her; perhaps he had been a killer like so many of them were, had gotten into fistfights over positions in the mess line, had cheered as two War Boys pounded each other into bloody messes, had pushed a fellow War Boy under the wheels for whatever reasons made one War Boy turn on another.

Capable wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she had to. Already, the memory of his blue eyes were fading, and sometimes when she tried to remember what he looked like, she could only recall the touch of his scarred lips against her fingertips.

She came up after sunset; there was still plenty of light to go by and the cloud-tainted sky was streaked crimson from one side of the waste to the other.

“Ace?” The Ace was sitting in the lee side of the greenhouse protected from the wind, where he could watch the windmills turning their endless labor. He often came here in the early evenings, as if he drew some measure of happiness knowing that just beyond the barrier of metal frame and plastic sheeting, the tiny lives of the plants flourished within a shelter he had helped create.

He had his goggles off; they dangled around his neck, forgotten.

“Capable.” The Ace gestured for her to sit; she joined him, her shoulder brushing his as she settled down. “What brings you up here?”

“I brought you some supper and wanted to eat together. But before that...can we talk a little?”

“Of course. I been thinking, that business you told me about Seki... Give him another try as Lancer. Most people don't do that great on their first time out; he'll get better with practice.”

“No, that's not what I wanted to talk about, but thank you, I'll keep that in mind.” 

He sat silent, waiting for her, not looking at her; it was a War Boy's way of not rushing the speaker, and she was grateful for it.

“I wanted to ask you. Since you know so many of the War Boys. If you...if you had known a War Boy by name of Nux.”

“Nux.” The Ace smiled to himself, and there was genuine fondness in his voice. “One of the best War Pups I ever had.”

“Really? You trained him?”

“Furiosa, Slit, Nux, Morsov, Button, Notch.” He counted the names off on his fingertips. “Six War Pups, first cohort I trained up from scratch. I inherited Morsov and Button, but it might as well been from scratch for all the harm the previous trainer did. Nux was one of the best and brightest; he was always a responsible boy. Did everything right and never had to be told twice. He got delayed in promotions part on account that he was too good of a Revhead, the rest because he grew too fast. Too tall to make Lancer, but once he made Driver...” The Ace smiled. “Best Driver in a generation, only second to Furiosa, though it would depend on the drive.”

“What was he like?”

“Gentle. Good-natured and polite. Hard-working and determined as hell to get ahead. Even Slit listened to Nux, respected him, and for all his talent, Slit was sometimes no better than a beast with two legs.”

“Slit?”

“Nux's Lancer. War Boy with the scars.” The Ace gestured, tracing the outline of Slit's scars on his own face. “Real tough to manage. I knew he'd be good right from the start, make a great Lancer, but sometimes later I wondered if it was worth the trouble.”

“They were close?”

“Always, from the first day we brought Slit back from Bartertown. They were best mates, even before they were Driver and Lancer, real close. No one else could get Slit to listen like Nux could; Nux was a good influence.”

“I can see that.” And here listening to the Ace it was like she could see Nux again, his blue eyes bright as his face swam up to her out of the watery depths of her memory, and for a moment her eyes filled with tears and she was unable to speak.

The Ace looked off into the distant waste, dotting the air with his fingertip as if checking off a list. “If you're short on Imperators, make him one, if Furiosa hasn't done it yet. If anyone deserves it, it's Nux. He's a War Boy of War Boys, best of 'em all. Real good at solving problems; whenever an engine seems like it's been trashed, he can usually find a way to get it back on its feet. I'd recommend him for anything you want to give him. Make him an Imperator; he'd do a fine job. I'd trust him to drive the War Rig any day. He's capable of doing any job you want to give him and then maybe more. Just don't make him a Half-life Noble; he's can't work Lancer safely. Around ten hands is the ideal height for a Lancer and at eleven hands even, Nux is too tall. It's too risky. At eleven hands on up, they're more likely to fall or catch a bullet to the head.”

“I...I can't.” Capable sighed.

“Oh. I thought you wanted to know if he was up to the job. Well, if you can't promote him, tell Furiosa to do it. Tell her I told you, if that'll change her mind. Can't see why she wouldn't promote him...”

“There...aren't any jobs where he is anymore. At least, I truly hope so.” And here Capable really could no longer speak, and she cried.

The Ace sighed and shook his head, jaw clenched. He put his arm around her, hugging her tight.

“When did it happen?”

“On the last day of that chase, that long, awful run through the waste. He died saving our lives. He sacrificed himself.”

“Was...he Witnessed?”

“Yes. I Witnessed him myself. So did Cheedo, and one of the Vuvalini.”

Without letting her go, he made the V8 with his hands, and that meant he was briefly embracing her. Capable clung to his arm for a moment before letting the Ace go.

“How did it happen?”

“He closed off the pass for us, blocking the War Parties. Flipped the War Rig.”

“You have it back though now, right? The War Rig.”

“Yes.”

“And Nux?”

“I was told he snapped his neck in the crash. That it was fast, whatever it was. I don't know; I wasn't there when they did the salvage. They told me about it later.”

“Where's he buried?”

“They brought him back; he's up in the farm in the Immortan's Tower, up at the very top tier. But Furiosa. She-she had his heart...”

“She took out his heart, didn't she? Had it dried special, real small like, and put in the War Rig, with Imperator Acosta's heart.” 

“How'd you know?”

“I was there when they did that for Imperator Acosta, who was the War Rig Imperator before Furiosa. There's a yellow leather bag that hangs off the dash. Imperator Acosta's heart is in it. The gear shift dagger's handle is made from his driving leg; they dug it up 500 days after he went into the soil to continue to give us life. Imperators become part of the War Rig when they die.” The Ace smiled sadly to himself. “So that's where my little Nux went; an Imperator at the very the end, driving the War Rig.”

“I miss him every day.”

“Poor Nux; of us Half-lifes, he deserved it least. He got sick, real bad, about three, four hundred days before the chase.”

“Larry and Barry.”

The Ace nodded. “It came on him fast, out of nowhere, and the sickness grew and spread like a fuel-line fire. He was looking to be a full-life too, lucky to have made it so long without getting sick, but when he got sick it knocked him off his feet. He went from driving front escort on the War Rig to spending his days grounded, too sick to stand. Some days were worse than others; only his reputation as the best among the best kept him from getting trashed.”

“I wish he was here. It's hard doing this without him. He would have made it easier. He once told me that he knew everyone by name, even the War Pups. Sometimes I see a War Boy from behind, and for a moment I forget that Nux is dead and I think that maybe it's him, but...” Capable closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face.

“He wouldn't want you suffering for him. He was looking to go to Valhalla for a long time,” the Ace said simply.

“Knowing that doesn't make it stop hurting. He was my friend.”

“You're right. Certain pains stick with you and never go away.” The Ace held her against his shoulder, and she put her arm around his back, her hand against his shoulder.

“Is that what it means to be a War Boy,” she asked. “To survive? Despite everything.”

“It's to keep going, to keep trying, no matter what,” the Ace said softly. “Even after everyone else is gone and you're the only one left.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Let me tell you about a time when we played War Boy,” The Dag grinned as she walked the Ace to his sod house. It was growing dark and turning cold, but she thought he might be amused; he had been troubled all day with something that he wasn't inclined to explain.

“Yeah? Played War Boy? What's that?”

“You ever wonder how we got in the War Rig?” 

The Ace looked at her, eyebrows raised. “All the time. Inspected every inch of the rig myself before we left. How'd you manage? You got on after the inspection, right?”

“Right.”

The Ace nodded. “That I figured. But you had to cross the entire Third Tower and most of the War Tower...”

“We played War Boy; me, Capable, and Cheedo. Furiosa brought us the clothes. Boots, overalls, gloves, a couple balaclavas. I wrapped my hair up and tucked it under the hood, and put goggles on to hide my eyes.”

“Dressed you up as a couple motorcycle Drivers, eh? Clever War Boy; that's my Furiosa.”

“We put on the white as the War Boys do. Angharad insisted we leave a message to Immortan Joe with it.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“We told him we weren't things to be owned. That our babies won't be warlords. Wrote it on the wall with the white. Oh, and asked him who killed the world.”

The Ace looked at her in surprise and then nodded slowly, taking it in. 

“Toast was truly incensed, absolutely furious. She had even cut her hair for it, only to have Furiosa tell her no. She's too small to pass for a War Boy, and too busty to pass for a War Pup. It wouldn't have worked, no matter what she wanted. So it was up to the rest of us. Pretending to be escorting a couple Wives to see the Organic Mechanic.”

“Don't he usually go up to the Immortan's Tower? How'd you get past the guard?”

“Yeah, we had Furiosa. When they heard the metallic shiver of the chains of her emblem as she strode forth heroically, they averted their eyes and let us pass; that Imperator's emblem is powerful business.”

“Sure is.”

“Ran into trouble only once, really. We were stopped by a regimen of tiny War Pups, trooping along to work.” 

“What happened?”

“The only trouble was keeping Cheedo from fainting in vile terror. But I had my hand gripped good on hers, and I gave her a look so she didn't dare to even squeak.”

“The War Pups let you by, didn't they?”

“I'm pretty sure one of them winked at Furiosa, blessing her on her merry way.”

“She was always good to them.” The Ace nodded. “Makes sense now; heard they were the ones who let her up.”

“That's what I saw, when we came back. The War Pups took over the lift.”

The Ace laughed and the Dag smiled, glad to see his mood had lightened. “Told them myself it was a bad idea to take on so many new pups at once. Once we got rich off that war with the Bandits, they kept bringing more in, buying more and more, sourcing them from different places. So we'll have a Lancer cohort of twenty-six which sounds better than it is; it's too many for one trainer, and has to be divided up among all the Half-life Nobles. Used to be that you could take the training shop any time you want, but with all 'em cohorts, we had to draw up a rota just to keep from runnin into each other. All the extra work you could get from the pups wasn't enough to justify so many of 'em.” The Ace gave her a knowing look. “Bad choices on the Immortan's part, really. He should have listened to us.”

“I understand he was the master of miserable choices, in the end.”

“Just cuz we can afford taking on a crowd of War Pups don't mean we should. More War Pups then War Boys, almost.” The Ace shook his head. “Warren was getting crowded.”

“It's all right, we have room in the Immortan's Tower. Some of the War Pups are staying there now, and Cheedo's been helping educate them, teaching them how to read. And we're looking into expanding the Third Tower.”

“That's for the Treadmill Rats. The mills works, where the Wretched that get brought up to labor pump up the water, runnin the mills round the clock.”

“Mostly, but Capable thought maybe we could use some of the upper warren in the Third Tower to house the Organics, and shift the War Tower around.” The Dag stopped; they were at the Ace's home. She met his eye, wondering what his expression was behind the dark lenses. “You know, the way I heard it, Furiosa always wondered how you got on the War Rig.”

“Yeah. She had us all turned off. The whole War Rig crew, all the Half-life Nobles. Said she wanted to train a new crew as trial on an easy run to Gastown. That way we could run double shifts if we had to, swapping between the two crews. Seemed real reasonable, til we heard we all got turned off that Gastown run. Me, Coil, Morsov, Tran, and Dart, and the extra Lancers she picked that rounded out the numbers.”

“So you went against her.”

“I was just supposed to make sure everything was hooked on and ready to go. But I ordered off the replacement crew lead, and took his spot.”

“What about the others?”

“Tran and Dart obeyed her, but Morsov, he got on one of the bikes riding Lancer at the last minute and dared anyone to stop him. Coil talked his way onto the front escort; not a lot of people will say no to him. He was Furiosa's Driver for hundreds of days, and her Lancer for even longer. He never forgave himself for not bein there when she lost her hand; he wasn't gonna let her go nowhere without him having eyes on.”

“Were they close?”

“As close as I've ever seen Furiosa get to anyone,” the Ace shrugged. “Would put down fresh food bars on Coil being Glory's father, if I was a betting War Boy. How old is Glory now?”

“800 days, I think?”

“Been over a thousand since the chase. So you do the countin,” the Ace leaned against the doorway.

“There was someone else.”

The Ace gave the Dag a skeptical look. “Someone else?”

“A road warrior.”

“Nah. Don't believe it, not at all.”

“No, really. They...they were really close.” The Dag said, her head tilted back, remembering. “His name was Max. They fought side by side. He saved her life, more than once. Save all our lives. But he disappeared while we were being let up. He was standing right near me, and he hopped off the lift before I could say boo.”

“Whoever he was isn't important. That's not like Furiosa. She wouldn't do that.”

“I don't know. I thought they seemed close. They talked a lot.”

“No. I won't believe it.” The Ace shook his head. “Not with a road warrior; not a man she didn't know. Her and Coil though, that I could believe.”

“Hmm. I don't know.” The Dag tapped her finger against her lips, considering the notion. “What was Coil like?”

“Full-life, and strong with it. Born 'n bred in the Citadel, the son of an Imperator though no one knows which one. Friendly. Bold as hell, and brave in any situation, not afraid to spit the Immortan in the eye if he thought he had to. Kind of an odd War Boy though. The kind that mourned for his dead Driver even though it meant promotion for him.”

“They were close?”

“Drivers and Lancers always are, especially when it's just the two of them on a car. They worked together, fought together...did just about everything together. Back in the day when I put 'em together, I thought Coil would be a good match for her. Wouldn't hurt for her to have a good ally, I thought; Coil was always well-liked and well-respected. Over 3700 days together as a Driver and Lancer crew, side-by-side, those two. He was the first to be promoted to Half-life Noble once she became Imperator, and never left her side even then, so in total, they were together over five thousand days. If I hadn't been there, he probably would have been her crew lead, easy.”

“That's a long time. I didn't know; she never told us.”

“He went down in Buzzard territory. He was riding Lancer in the front escort. Least he didn't go under the wheels, but maybe that would have been a mercy, compared to being captured by the Buzzards.”

“He's dead, isn't he?”

The Ace nodded. “He was a dead man when his Driver ran them into that trap. But we all know the risks going on the road. But those risks...she shouldn't have taken them.” His fist curled up into a tight ball, and when the Dag flinched back instinctively, he noticed and forced his hand to relax.

“Sorry. I don't mean to be angry, and I sure ain't angry at you. I just...hate thinking that they wasted their lives, half-lives and full.”

“It wasn't for nothing. It was for us. All of us.”

“Maybe, but you gotta think it through how we might feel. Losin lots of good War Boys, the best. I knew Morsov from the time he was raised up as a War Pup, not even four thousand days old, and I Witnessed him. From what I've been hearin, all my cohort, all them pups I trained are dead, 'cept for Furiosa.”

“All of them...?”

“Even if it weren't by her own hand direct, they went under the wheels on account of her. She spent all her trust in one run, to give you and your sisters a new life. To give herself a new life. And maybe Miss Glory too, if she knew about her then.”

“Isn't life better for everyone now though?”

“Better? Wonderin every day when I'm gonna be sent down to the Wretched, when I'm gonna be too tired to work and trashed like all the other War Boys who can't work.” The Ace touched his bad leg lightly. “Can't even drive on this; this is my drivin leg.”

“You wouldn't be trashed. Ever. You have my promise, my word. We'd stand for you.”

“No, there ain't room in this world for people who can't work, can't be useful.”

“You're useful, the Ace. You've helped me and you've helped Capable...”

“You can't understand. You're not from this world. Livin the high life in the Immortan's stable of breeders ain't the same as bein a half-life War Boy waitin for a chance at Valhalla, hopin for the war or the run where you can give what's left of your half-life so the rest of us can have a chance at our own lives. To make your death count, to make it mean something.” The Ace's hand strayed to the silver canister that hung from his belt. “Least I knew that there ain't no Walhalla for me nor anyone else; I knew that before I could grow a beard. Whatever we was dreaming of and hoping for, that green place didn't exist. There's only this place, this world. This is the best we got and we had better get used to it cuz there ain't no other.” He spat out the words, bitter.

“The Ace...”

He struggled with himself, with his thoughts, but as the Dag watched, he came to some kind of conclusion.

“Sorry, the Dag. You should go.” The Ace managed something almost like a smile to show that he was not angry with her.

The Dag nodded. “I think I'm beginning to understand what I don't understand.”

“Someday, maybe...” He shook his head. “No, there's no forgiving an Imperator who lets their whole crew go under the wheels. I'm sorry; I don't know what else there is to say about it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Glory rode high on the Ace's shoulders; it was her favorite thing to do and no amount of coaxing could stop her. The Ace didn't mind; he said she was a lot lighter than even the the smallest basket of beans.

She babbled to him, little stories about her toys, her mother and her aunts, her friends among the War Pups, and he listened gravely, patiently. Sometimes he would gently admonish her to not tell tales, that if she wanted to be a good Imperator someday, she'd have to know discretion.

Sometimes he sang her old songs in his creaking voice, tunes that he no longer knew the words to, and the Dag would fill them in, as best she could. Between the three of them, once Capable joined in, they had pieced together a handful of songs, patching words in where they were missing, though often the Ace sang nonsense, making up his own words for existing songs.

“I'm crazy about you. I'm crazy about you. I'm crazy dear Glory...I'm crazy about you.” The Dag laughed as Glory sang along in her sweet, chirping voice, drumming her heels against the the Ace's chest with excitement, his calloused hands supporting her legs.

Something made the Ace hesitate; an old War Boy's instincts.

The Ace stopped suddenly, and turned around slowly.

“Who are you?” The Ace slipped Glory off his shoulders, handed her to the Dag in one quick motion, and strode forward to block the path, setting himself between the stranger and the women. “Where'd you come from?”

The stranger paused, his hand straying to the sawed-off shotgun strapped to his leg.

The Ace brought his fists up slowly, eyes on the stranger, showing that he would not yield without a fight.

The stranger held up his hands, to show he meant no harm, and pulled down the dust mask, pulled off the goggles.

“Max...?” Capable blinked. “Is that you? Where were you? ”

The Dag gave a little exclamation of delight as she pushed past the Ace. “You're back. How did you get up here? You look so different with that bushy mess of beard.”

Max pointed to the cliff. “Old metal spikes still stuck in the rock, all the way up. You should have them removed.”

“Max, we missed you.”

“She's been so worried for you.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Have you met Glory? She's yours, isn't she?” And here, the Dag offered Glory to Max. 

Glory's eyes filled with tears; she flinched from the stranger, the man who smelled like gunpowder and metal, bullets and sweat. Squirming out of the Dag's grip, she hid behind the Dag, hesitant.

“Glory, don't be like that. He's your dad.”

Max blinked, surprised, and knelt down to face Glory. Her clear blue eyes fixed upon him fiercely and she tossed her head back, her dark curling hair settling around her ears. “Furiosa's girl?”

“Yeah. Born 271 days after the long run. After you left.”

Max offered Glory his hand, but Glory ducked behind the Dag, afraid.

Nodding to himself, Max straightened up. He and the Ace eyed each other warily.

“It's all right, Glory. He won't hurt you.”

“He's our friend.” Capable added. “Back from before you were born.”

“Road warrior, eh?” The Ace spat. “They're not welcome around here.”

“The Ace!” The Dag exclaimed in reproach. “Max is a friend.”

“Try to understand, Ace.” Capable said. “He saved all our lives many times on that run. If it weren't for him, Furiosa would have died. He gave her his own blood when she was exsanguinated.”

The Ace scowled, and looked Max over with a discerning eye, gauging him, noting the guns, the knives, the rounds of ammunition, his stance. “You the one they call the Bloodbag?”

Max's mouth twitched, but he nodded.

“Then maybe we got a debt we owe you.” The Ace said carefully, and it was hard to tell what his expression was behind the dark lenses of his goggles.

Max shook his head. “Nah.”

“Brand's called you back, hasn't it? You come to join us War Boys? Put on the white?” The Ace's mouth twitched with dark amusement. “Be an Imperator maybe, if the white don't suit? Gonna ride high on the War Rig?”

Max shook his head again. “Once was enough.”

“Then what are you here for, Max?” Capable asked, making her way carefully around the bulk of the Ace, who still held his position in the middle of the path. “Why have you returned?”

“I came for her.” Max pointed to Glory.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything changed with the arrival of the road warrior. The women no longer came to see him; the Ace went back to life alone on the War Tower farm. 

Works and days. 

The Ace ate his food bars, he set his back to digging out new terraces with the other Organics. He returned to what felt like a more normal routine without visitors to break up the tedium of days. That perhaps was to be expected, but there was a certain anxiety that gnawed him.

Sometimes at night he would wake, unable to sleep. It was a feeling he had never had before; in the past, sleep was always engulfing, a welcome respite. Now he began to suffer, worrying.

Perhaps the road warrior had come to take back what he thought was his, and so perhaps the Ace would never see little Glory again.

He worked hard, long days to try to keep the worry at bay.

 

The wheel moon rose cold out of the waste, a scarred spectre in white, the true warlord of the world, and with its ascendance, the Ace decided it was time to turn in. Blanket tucked around his shoulders, his breath rose steam in the icy night air as he turned back toward his sod house, walking very slowly. The cold made muscles seize up, made bones ache. All his old injuries hurt, almost unbearably so, but something about that pain was soothing to him; it scoured away a lot of the other pains, the ones that were not tied to his flesh and his bones.

He stopped before he came to the door and turned around slowly; someone was there, in the shadow of the sod house, waiting.

“What'd ya want?” The Ace brought up his fist slowly in warning, letting the blanket slide back to reveal his muscled arm. He wondered who it was skulking about the farm at night, when everyone who had legitimate business had gone down hours ago. Immediately, he thought of the road warrior with his guns.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” He recognized her voice before he saw her and in the moonlight that glowed white upon the dust of the paths, she strode forward, bleached of color. But for the short shear of her hair, and that metal hand, he could have easily mistakened her for the War Boy she had once been.

Speechless, he felt the blanket slide further off his shoulder, but she reached out and caught it with her hand, and tucked it around him.

“It's getting cold for an old War Boy to be out so late.” She smiled at him, but he could still see that tell-tale tremor in her hand, hear the little actuators whirring softly in her mechanical hand; she was nervous.

“1,367.” The Ace said, straightening the blanket around his shoulders. 

“You've been counting.”

“And not a word from you in all those days, not even through the Dag. Capable. Any one of your Imperators.”

“They're not my Imperators.”

“What are they then?”

“I'm their Imperator.” Furiosa nodded. “Capable is the real power behind the Citadel now. She makes the decisions. I just do the trade runs, like I'm meant to.”

“Where's Glory?”

“With Max, Capable, Toast, Cheedo, and the Dag.”

“The Dag and Capable been banned from the War Farm?”

“No. They're just busy with something else.”

“What about Glory?”

Furiosa shook her head.

“Is he going to take her away? Glory.”

“No. He's here to help.”

The Ace was silent for a long moment, and from here she could not tell what he was thinking; his face hidden by shadow. 

“Tell me what you want from me, Furiosa.”

“I need your help.”

“What makes you think I can help? Don't you got a pile of new Imperators to do the business for you? You're runnin the Citadel just fine, the lot of you. Everyone's happy and full and no one's beatin the War Pups, though some of 'em are sure getting mouthy with their book learnin. Don't you got someone better you can ask? Why don't you ask your road warrior?”

“I need you, Ace.”

“Maybe the Ace you knew ain't the Ace that's standin here. Just like the Furiosa I knew ain't the Furiosa that's standin here.” The Ace spat out the words, bitter. “What makes you think an old and crippled War Boy is of any good to you?”

“You know the War Tower and the War Boys, better than anyone.”

“And you know they wouldn't say boo to me, not after this.” The Ace pointed to his leg.

“I know you were hurt.”

The Ace began to walk, slowly; the cold had seized up his leg and it was hard to get muscles going again, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. “This ain't the kind of man who can go back down to the warren, to the shops. You wanna see me end up trashed, then maybe I should go down. That's the only way I'm going down from the farm, Furiosa. Into the Wretched with all them other cripples.”

“It doesn't have to be like that. After all, not all broken War Boys end up trashed.” She held up her left arm.

The Ace hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe not. Still don't see how I'd do you any good.”

“Max has seen us all dead.” Furiosa said simply, and she caught the Ace's eye. “That's why he's come back.”

The Ace shook his head. “And to think you let your girl around that beast with two legs...”

“No, listen. It's not what you think. He...he thinks there's a plot against us, in the War Tower.”

“How's he know that?”

“He...” She shook her head. “I find it hard to believe sometimes, but he has dreams. Visions of the future. But more than that, Capable... Capable says she's heard murmurs of a conspiracy, but it's beyond her ears. She's seen signs around the War Tower that point to sedition; secret words, secret messages, followings...”

“I don't know how I can be of any use to you, Furiosa.”

“I don't know what to believe, Ace.” Furiosa caught him by his elbow, and he met her eyes. “I don't know if any of it's true, but I need to know. For Glory's sake. He's seen her dead, run down by the Gigahorse.”

“So take apart the Gigahorse.” The Ace gestured. “Could probably get two good cars out of it, easy.”

“It's not that simple.”

“Sure it is. Cut the welds, unbolt the chassis, take the wheels off...you don't need me to tell you how to do it.”

“The War Boys won't let us.”

“I'm a War Boy. I'm tellin you, cut it down and break it apart.”

“Their Revhead crew is very possessive.”

“So send 'em to me and I'll give them the business. We don't need no guzzoline addict like the Gigahorse, not when we're runnin lean and got all 'em pups to feed. What do they think, guzzoline just comes from the sky? Car that ain't workin every day might as well be busted down and rebuilt. Send 'em to me and I'll get 'em to break it up.”

“Thank you, Ace.”

“I ain't going down to the warren though. You send 'em to me.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated at the doorway. “I'll see you soon.”


	9. Chapter 9

Furiosa came almost every night when she could, even if only for a few minutes.

Often they didn't talk at all. Mostly, she would come to sit with the Ace in his sod house, and she would heat up a tin cup of water for him over the kerosene lamp, holding the handle with a folded shop rag, brewing him tea made from sprigs of various herbs grown on the Immortan's Farm. An old remedy, she had told him, something to help soothe his aches and while he wasn't certain of its efficacy, he was not averse to the drink; it was warm and kept him from shivering if nothing else.

“Where'd you learn all this? Plants stuff.”

“From my mother,” she said. “We planted many things together.”

“That's all gone now, isn't it? The place where the plants grew.” The Ace recalled something that Capable and the Dag had told him. “Water went sour. Seems like a common story, don't it?”

“Yes. But the memory remains,” Furiosa said. “And now we're the Many Mothers.”

“Precious few of you, counting the other breeders. Twenty-seven, right? Plus the new girl that was raised up on the 12,075th.”

“Don't call us breeders.” Furiosa snapped. “We're human beings.”

The Ace blinked, taken aback and he nodded slowly to himself, thinking it through. “Sorry. That's a rude word; shouldn't have used it. You're right. Women. Precious few of you, considering.”

“How do you know so much?” Furiosa looked at him. “Even down to the number of women in the Immortan's Tower.”

“War Pups always got eyes on,” the Ace shrugged. “I can't help but hear it, even from here. Glory told me lots too. But she's not allowed round here no more, is she?”

“I'm trying to protect her.”

“From what?” The Ace gave her a questioning look. 

“Not you, if that's what you're asking. You, she misses. She's always asking for her Ace. She's not quite old enough to understand why she can't come to the War Tower anymore. You should come by the Immortan's Tower.”

“That's a walk I'm not sure I can manage,” the Ace said, looking at his leg.

Furiosa gave him a skeptical look. “She misses you.”

The Ace stood, pacing the sod house, trying to get his leg moving and limber.

“I miss her too.”

 

There was little moon the next night; Furiosa came up bearing a lantern and the golden glow of the pinprick of light as it wound its way up through the farm terraces stirred a deep-seated memory in the Ace that he could not quite place.

Tonight she had something for him.

“I've seen this before.” The Ace paused, turning the contraption of steel and leather over in his hands. “Isn't this the road warrior's? The one called the Bloodbag.”

“His name is Max, Ace, and you know it. He wanted you to have it.” Furiosa said, pulling the screws from her pocket. “Screwdriver.”

He handed her his best one, a combination screwdriver that was flat on one side and cross on the other, remembering that she hadn't carried tools since she had been made Imperator. Imperators didn't carry tools like regular War Boys, at least not the same kinds of tools.

“Don't he need it?”

“Not according to him. His is an old injury. Sit.”

The Ace sat, and she knelt before him, sizing the brace to his leg. “He said you'd probably get better use out of it, and that it's given him good service for years. Though not in so many words,” she smiled a little to himself.

“You like him.”

“He's trustworthy, reliable.”

“More than that, I mean. The Dag thinks he's Glory's pa.”

At that, Furiosa was silent as she finished tightening the screws, but then she spoke slowly and clearly.

“That's none of your business or anyone else's.” There was a note of warning in her voice.

“Probably not.”

“Then drop it.”

“You know who Glory reminds me of?” The Ace looked down, catching her eye. “Coil.”

She stood in a quick, fierce motion. “You should try walking around and see how it feels.”

The Ace stood up and took a few careful steps. “Not bad, not bad.”

She handed him back the screwdriver; he put it away absently, securing it against his hip with an easy practiced motion.

“Coil always said he wanted to have eyes on for you, no matter where you went in life. Lancer, Driver, Imperator...he didn't want to leave you to chance and whatever the Fury Road throws at you. He would have taken a shot for you, anytime, anywhere, no hesitation. That's why he was riding Lancer on the front escort that day, the day you turned us off.”

“I told him not to come. I warned him I'd bust him down to Revhead if he disobeyed.”

“He couldn't stand the thought of losing another crewmate. Once was too much for Coil. He never forgave himself for not being there when you lost your hand,” the Ace looked at her, and her eyes were full of tears, gleaming in the lamplight.

“We were all following orders.” Furiosa felt at the clawteeth of her mechanical thumb. “Hunker down, and then get in the fight as soon as possible with whatever Lancers available, as soon as the dust cleared.”

“That time weren't anyone's fault, but he blamed himself. Did he ever tell you that? He thought it was his fault that you got hurt. When you were poorly after, he got in an ugly fight with one of the Imperators because he thought he should be excused from the rota to see to you.”

“I didn't know. He never said anything.” Furiosa ran her thumb along the sharp clawteeth. “Why didn't you say?”

“I thought you knew.”

“There were many things we never spoke of.” She shook her head with a sigh. “He shouldn't have come.”

“None of us should have.” The Ace touched the metal brace; it was cold against his hand. “But we wanted to protect you. You should have told us.”

“I couldn't. You know why.”

“I wish you did. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“If we were caught traitoring together, you would have all been shredded too, not just me. It had to be this way.”

“Maybe I could have talked you out of it. Maybe you could have talked me into it.” The Ace shrugged. “Who knows.”

“No, there was only ever one way.” Furiosa touched her throat lightly, remembering something. “And I won't regret it, even if...”

“Even if you killed your crewmate, your best mate? The War Boy who was your first and only Driver, the War Boy who busted himself down to Lancer when you wanted to drive? The War Boy you made your first Half-life Noble when you were raised up as War Rig Imperator? You might as well have put Coil under the wheels yourself, with your own two hands.” The Ace's voice was cold. “I saw you swing the rig sharp to avoid hitting him after they ran into that trap, but where he went down, there was no way of surviving. Buzzards pick off any Lancer that falls off, usually before we even get out of sight.”

“Even then.” Furiosa's jaw set, and she faced the Ace, her eyes fixed on his. “You can't understand what I've been through. What all the girls and women alike went through.”

The Ace's expression darkened; that was something he hadn't considered. “Maybe not.” 

Silent, each was locked in their own thoughts. The Ace walked back and forth across the plastered floor of the sod house, and it seemed that with every circuit his step was a little stronger, a little more sure.

“Furiosa.”

“Yes?”

“For what it's worth, I like to think that Coil's still got eyes on for you, even now.”

Furiosa gave him a questioning look as Ace paced across the room and back again, testing his new leg brace.

Finally, her curiosity got the better of her.

“What do you mean, Ace?”

“Your girl, Glory?” His pale eyes settled on her as he came toward her, and there was a sadness to them, along with a warmth that she hadn't seen in a long time. “She got his eyes.”


	10. Chapter 10

Tonight the moon would be waxing full, perfect timing for the run. But this early in the morning when work should be starting, the Ace and everyone else who worked the farm watched from up top, standing at the edge of the cliff near the windmills. Around him were a cluster of War Pups, young boys sorted into the Organics to work the farms; he kept them back from the steep edge and dragging one back by the shoulder, gave the boy a quick but stern talking-to.

Below, the black smudge of the War Rig left on the triangle run, the long trade run between the three settlements and Bartertown, and the Ace wondered if Glory missed her mum.

 

He heard the Dag coming before he saw her.

“So seid nun geduldig lieben Brüder. Bis auf die Zukunft, die Zukunft des Herrn,” she sang sweetly, cheerfully.

This time she wasn't alone; she brought with her the Bloodbag, standing by her side, his hand on his gun. The Dag came with a list of upgrades she wanted implemented, some new ideas about how to improve some of the existing terraces, but the Ace took her aside to speak privately before they could get to business.

“You got an Imperator now?” The Ace slid his eyes toward Max, who glared at him over the black edge of the dusk wrap wound around his neck.

“It's not like that, the Ace. He's just trying to guard me, to protect me. In case anything strange happens.”

“Gonna give the War Boys the wrong idea,” the Ace gestured. “Gonna make 'em think you're scared, scared without Furiosa here. You can't show 'em you're afraid. It'll make 'em nervy.”

“Don't be silly.”

“You always used to come alone, and now you got a road warrior playin Imperator. That says something that you don't wanna be sayin. They're gonna talk.”

“It'll be fine.”

“Sure hope that's true,” the Ace said, his brow furrowed with concern.

In the distant waste, the War Rig's front escort kicked up a plume of dust along the road from Gastown, and the heliographs sparked their messages between the two settlements.

 

It took about nine, ten days to run the triangle; loading up at Gastown and Bulletfarm slowed them down by more than half a day. As always, the Ace counted the days, but there was a tension to the War Tower that was palpable even from the farm, as if something was awry. The War Pups were discussing it among themselves as they picked fresh beans; something about Revheads going down among the Wretched.

It troubled the Ace; access was restricted and strictly monitored; how could a War Boy be going down other than in the daily patrol, or as part of the War Rig's crew? It made no sense to him. He wasn't sure if it was idle gossip or something else.

Capable, he thought. Capable would know. But she hadn't come up to the War Farm in ages, not since the arrival of the road warrior. The Ace considered his options. Wait for her to possibly come, or go find her himself.

Well, it would be a good excuse as any, to pass through the warren to get to the Third Tower and make the long walk to the Immortan's Tower. His leg was holding up better with the support of the brace, and he was walking a gait that was closer and closer to normal every day, having exercised it regularly for some time now.

He wasn't going down, the Ace told himself. Not to be trashed, not to be challenged or exiled. He had even been given permission to cross the towers. Probably Capable was in the warren, just down the stairs.

“Just goin to find Capable. No trouble at all,” the Ace muttered to himself.

 

The Ace immediately knew something was wrong when he heard shouting. He took a moment to rest after the long spiral of stairs, feeling the deep ache in his leg.

“A body can't go for a simple walk without trouble,” the Ace muttered to himself, and squaring his shoulders, he headed for the great open heart of the shops, the multi-leveled iron-welded car park.

 

“First they won't let us rebuild the Doof Wagon. Now they want us to take apart the Gigahorse. Are we gonna put up with it? The Gigahorse is the pride of the Citadel. We can't let it be cut up!” A War Boy shouted, pumping his fist as he spoke, punctuating every word.

Murmurs all around, and from what the Ace could gather some of it sounded like agreement but most seemed unsure. War Boys and War Pups were crowded into the central shop, some on the higher levels looking down; one or two were even hanging off a swinging chain to get a better look. It seemed like the entire warren was here, all the young shop-bound Revheads, the Organics, and the War Pups; anyone who hadn't left with the daily patrol or was on the triangle run with the War Rig.

In the middle of the mess was Capable, the flames of her hair rising around her head in curling strands, the one spot of vivid color in a sea of white. She was confronting the War Boy; from here, the Ace couldn't quite make out who it was, though he had some guesses.

“No one wants to destroy the power and the legacy of the Citadel. No matter what has changed, we all respect each other and each other's beliefs,” she said reasonably. “But as we've discussed before, our current finances mean that we can't afford the maintenance and upkeep.”

“Thought this was all sorted out already,” the Ace muttered to himself as he began to move through the crowd toward Capable, concerned for her safety. Once one War Boy noticed him, the rest began to yield, though it was slow going.

“What maintenance? What upkeep? Gigahorse don't eat nothin sittin in the shop. You and your 'Many Mothers' just don't want to remember the work of the Immortan Joe. Who brought us out of the waste and redeemed us from our wandering through the sand and the dust. He is the one who grabbed the sun! He will ride with us eternal, shiny and chrome. Riding to Valhalla!”

“Riding to Valhalla.” There was a murmur through the crowd as the War Boys repeated the phrase.

“No one's questioning whether Joe was a hero. But I say that perhaps you should scrutinize your orthodoxy,” Capable said calmly, her voice carrying through the vaulted cathedral that was the heart of the shops. “Tell me.” Her eye fixed fiercely on the War Boy, “Who killed the world?”

There was a deep, uncomfortable silence as War Boys looked at each other and themselves.

“Not me. I weren't born then.” The War Boy was smug; Skew. That sure sounded like Skew, the Ace thought, as he continued to push his way closer.

“Then who keeps it dead?” Her voice rose, filling the space.

And here Skew briefly had nothing to say. He looked around for the answer, and then shrugged. “Can't be my fault; I ain't done nothin.”

Someone giggled nervously; a War Pup.

“Perhaps that's the problem. Doing nothing.” Capable turned, looking around at the War Boys. “Who else here has done nothing?”

“Not me. I work for a livin,” a Revhead joked, sparking scatters of chuckles and outright laughter.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Voices of agreement all around.

“No one here does nothin, 'less they don't wanna get fed,” someone shouted.

“So we agree; everyone who works has a place in our society, don't they?” Capable asked, and the War Boys nodded in agreement.

“So,” She looked around, meeting eyes with a firm, straightforward gaze, frank and unafraid. “What about Joe?”

“Well, he's the Immortan,” someone ventured.

“What did he do for work?” Capable asked.

War Boys looked at each other, puzzled; this was a question that no one could answer.

“When was the last time he drove the trade run to Bartertown?”

The Ace remembered, but he kept his mouth shut; it was so long ago that even the oldest of the younger War Boys in their seven thousands of days hadn't been born yet.

“What did he do? Did he work the War Farm up top? Re-align suspensions in the Revhead shops? Bang out the dents on the cars? Feed the bloodbags? Train the War Pups? Mind the Treadmill Rats? Guard the bridges?”

“Suppose he kept the peace between Gastown, Bulletfarm, and the Citadel,” someone offered.

“You know the Bullet Farmer was his brother, right? And the People Eater a hired hand.”

“Sure, we heard tell of that,” a War Boy said. “So?”

“It means that there was no peace-keeping necessary between the settlements. The Bulletfarm and Gastown are merely extensions of the Citadel.”

Murmurs of confusion; the Ace used that brief distraction to make his way to Capable's side.

Her eyes registered surprise, but she didn't show it on her face; she merely nodded to him.

“S-so? Didn't he deserve it? Being the Immortan and all.”

“Perhaps.” Capable set her hand lightly on the Ace's shoulder as she turned to address the War Boys around her. “But if that's true, why did he deserve it more than any man among you? Any other War Boy?”

The murmurs grew louder; War Boys turned to each other in discussion and the Ace could see Skew's expression turn frantic as he realized he was losing the crowd.

“But--”

“You. You!” The Ace pointed to Skew, raising his voice. “Orders is orders. You do what you're told and you keep your head down,” the Ace snapped.

“The Ace?”

“The Ace!”

“He's back.”

“Thought he was gone, trashed.”

Skew glared at him, insolent, picking up on that note of doubt. “Heard you was trashed, War Boy.”

“Never,” the Ace said. “Does it look like I'm trashed? Ain't a body alive that can trash me, other than Furiosa herself. So you get back to work, and you keep your fool mouth shut, Skew. Capable's higher 'n all of us, and we do what we're told, as we're meant to.”

“Maybe I don't like her position. Maybe I'll fight her for her rank,” Skew balled his hands up into fists, bringing them up threateningly, but Capable stood calm, uncaring and unflinching. A handful of War Boys, the kind that had been growing their hair out moved closer to her protectively, eyes on Skew, and briefly, it looked as if it could turn violent.

The Ace suddenly laughed, loud and raucous.

“What's so funny, War Boy?”

“You gonna fight her? You try fightin the lowest of Lancers first, Revhead. Ain't you got seven other Revheads ahead of you? And then another four Blackthumbs on top of that, before you even scratch the Lancers.”

War Boys all around them began laughing, laughing at Skew's disgrace, and the Ace could feel the tension drop out of the crowd entirely.

Skew's eyes widened. “Well sure, but she's just a breed--”

“You think just anyone makes Imperator in a day? That ain't how it works.” The Ace looked around. “And we don't call 'em breeders no more. They're women. Our folks, our people. Our family.”

“They're different.” A War Boy pointed out.

“And you ain't, Bluey, what with that hair of yours?” The Ace pointed at the War Boy's underarm, at the shock of wild red hair growing there, and there was another burst of laughter around the shop.

The Ace looked around. “All right, back to work, all of you. Ain't none of us gettin supper if we don't put a good day's work in. And take apart the Gigahorse; thought that was supposed to be over and done with ages ago.”

War Boys began filtering back to work; Skew shot them a dirty look with his mismatched eyes and skulked off into the warren.

Soon they were alone, and the Ace looked around at the empty places where the cars would have been, had they been in the shop. Out running the daily patrol, out riding escort. The great shop was mostly empty, but for the Wretched that made up the Treadmill Rats; they were dozing on their perches, waiting for the daily patrol to return so they could go back down and end their shifts.

“Shall we go to the Immortan's Tower?” Capable suggested, carefully.

“Been makin plans on it already,” the Ace said. Arms slung around each other companionably, Capable and the Ace headed to the bridges.


	11. Chapter 11

The Vault looked different from when he was last here; the Ace noted the heavy steel door. That hadn't been installed yet when he was last in the Immortan's Tower.

“I suppose this is your first time here,” Capable said to him, noticing his wandering eyes. 

“Nah, though it's been some time since I been in here, thousands and thousands of days.” The Ace looked around. “I put in almost all the plumbing, the drainage and the pipes. Helped design that water catchment.” He pointed to the round pool with its single step.

“Really?”

“Long time ago.” The Ace said. “Back when this were all open cavern,” and here he pointed to the glass windows. “We drained it, rerouted the water inside to a deep catch basin, and then we set up the windmills to pump the water up to the farm up top.” He walked around. “Regraded the floors flat, cut the tunnels to connect the natural chambers. There're some other rooms that we opened up, cut out of the rock, couple rooms with bench beds and such, over that way.” He pointed away from the Vault, toward the more public areas of the Immortan's Tower. “Supervised the bench cutting; trained a pile of War Boys to do most of the rough work, though I did the finishing myself. Least I didn't have to break stone for serious; did that for long enough.” As if the memory brought back all the aches and pains, his hand absently kneaded his lower back.

“I can believe that. Though now that you mention it, this reminds me of something.”

The Ace gave her a questioning look.

“When we were first brought here, we were kept in a cell,” Capable said. “That is, Angharad and I. You wouldn't know her; she...” Capable paused, taking a deep breath, unable to say the rest, not out loud. “On that long run,” Capable said, by way of explanation.

The Ace nodded his understanding.

“The Dag was already there. The three of us lived together in that cell for hundreds and hundreds of days. There was a marking on the stone, under the lip of one of the beds.”

“Capital A? Upside-down.” The Ace asked.

“So was that you?” Capable's eyebrows rose.

“Yeah. Builder's mark, back when I still had to work with stone. Started doing it on the benches since I cut so many of them, I might as well get some credit for the work.”

“Ah, I knew it.” Capable smiled to herself. “We had a debate over it; I argued it was a builder's mark. There was other graffiti there, probably drawn in later, and we would discuss every word, every image.”

“What did the other stuff say?”

“Nothing I can or want to remember,” Capable replied. “I haven't been in that room for years and I'd rather never return to it. But Ace, why an upside-down capital A? What does it stand for?”

“My name, mostly. But upside-down it, it's an old symbol I learned when I was a boy, though I don't know where it comes from.”

“Oh? What does it mean?”

“It means: _For All_.”

 

“Capable...? Ace!” Glory shrieked, running into the Vault, her bare feet echoing through the connecting tunnel.

“Well, well.” The Ace swung her up into his arms as she ran to him with arms outstretched. “Look at you, Miss Glory. Been mindin' your mum? Your aunts? Doin what you're told?”

“Ace, Ace! Up! I want up!” Laughing, she gestured; she wanted up on his shoulders, and he complied graciously.

“You don't have to do that,” Capable couldn't help but smile, exasperated.

“Ah, it's all right, for a little bit. She'll get too heavy to climb this rig someday, might as well let her up while she can.” The Ace said, and he walked around curiously, surveying the room, the books, the pianofuerte, the chalkboard, and the green plants.

“Aren't you afraid that she'll hurt you? I mean...” Capable tapped her own neck in reference to his tumors.

“Nah, a little basket of beans like this can't hurt me,” he said fondly. “Besides, they don't trouble me much. A little stiffness sometimes, some soreness and maybe at worst it's made my right arm a little weaker than the left.” He wiggled the fingers of his right hand. “Glory. I brought you something.”

Glory giggled, kicking her feet in the air as he swung her down off his shoulders. 

“You been good?”

“Yes, Ace.”

“You think you deserve to play with somethin new?”

“Yes! Please!”

“Try your hand at this.” The Ace pulled out a heavy bolt; three nuts had been screwed onto it, one was painted rust-red, one was lacquered black, and the other unadorned steel. He unscrewed the nuts carefully.

“Look, Glory.” He slowly re-screwed the nuts onto the bolt, one at a time, exaggerating the motion of turning for her edification.

The Ace then took it apart again and handed all three to her along with the bolt..

“Here, sit down. Good girl. No, no, it's not for eatin; metal's no good to you on the inside. Now put 'em on, same order, like this. Got it? Red, black, steel.”

Busily, Glory began to try it out herself, turning the screws awkwardly, fumbling at first but slowly getting the hang of it. 

“Good, good.” The Ace watched as she finished. “Now unscrew 'em and do it again with your other hand, same order. Red, black, steel.”

Capable watched, curious. “Is this how you trained the boys?”

“Balancin and alignment, is what I used to call it,” the Ace watched Glory absently, giving her a minor correction as she played. “Makes for better War Boys, if they can use both hands.”

“This explains a lot,” Capable said. “I was wondering why so many of the War Boys were ambidextrous or close to it.”

“Trained my first cohort that way, and I guess it got around after that,” the Ace said. “Though it ain't a new thing.” 

“No?”

“If you gotta swing the pickaxe all day to break the rock, or maybe set about chiseling a bench smooth, it's easier if you can switch hands,” the Ace mimed. “Lead with the right, lead with the left; it's all the same after a while, and it saves a lot of pains.”

“What...what about Nux?”

“He started out left-wheeled, but we worked on it. In the end, he was the best balanced; could pull out or install anything in any engine with either hand. Though I think he liked it that he was left-wheeled by nature.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, for one, the Immortan was too. And for another, he thought it'd give him an edge in a fight.”

“Nux was a fighter, wasn't he?”

“Well, sure. He was a Driver, right? He and Slit worked good together, spent nearly 1400 days riding the Fury Road together. Maybe a little less than that; he was pretty sick at the end.”

“Oh.”

“Best of the Drivers, before he was poorly. Fastest pursuit car in the Citadel by two, three seconds, at least. I don't know if you've learned that part of the business yet, but that means just about the fastest car on all the Fury Road.”

“Did he kill anyone?”

“Surely wouldn't know, never asked him directly. Course,” The Ace shrugged. “If we wasn't the killin type, they'd just call us Boys and leave off the War part. Capable, I don't know what he told you or didn't tell you, but...”

“Pa!” Glory suddenly jumped up onto her feet. Grabbing her new toy, she ran for the door.

The Ace turned around slowly; there was the road warrior, who had entered the Vault silently, treading lightly so as not to be heard. The road warrior paused when he saw the Ace, blinking, his hand grasping at the air briefly, but it was a motion that was quickly lost as Glory ran up and the man knelt to take her in his arms.

“You got her callin him that?” The Ace murmured. “Whose doin was that? The Dag's?”

Capable shook her head, speaking softly. “None of us said anything; Furiosa told the Dag to knock off that talk about Max. But then one day...she chose to call him that herself.”

“Pa! Look!” 

“New toy?” Max hefted Glory in his arms, she pressed her head fondly against the crook of his neck. Tickled by his short-cropped beard, she laughed in delight. Briefly bewildered, Max schooled his expression quickly.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Show me how it works?” And Glory took apart the bolt and rescrewed the nuts in order. “Red, black, steel” she chirped in a sing-song voice, and then she did it again with her left hand, albeit a little awkwardly, fumbling at the nuts without dropping them.

Max looked at the Ace as he set Glory down. “Go find Cheedo.” He ruffled her hair and she ran out of the Vault, out the narrow tunnel, her booted feet thumping and her voice echoing through the tunnel.

“Don't think Furiosa would appreciate you training her daughter to be a War Pup.” 

“It's just a toy, Max,” Capable said.

“And so what's wrong with learning the business? She gotta work someday, might as well start when it's easy to learn. Two hands that can do anything a body wants it to do are useful in anyone who wants to survive,” the Ace huffed.

“Glory deserves better.” Max said plainly. 

“You think you know better--” the Ace began, but Capable held up her hand for silence and the Ace shut his mouth, scowling.

“Was there something you needed to tell me, Max?”

The road warrior fixed his eyes on Capable. “The Dag and I are going to the War Farm. We'll return in a few hours.”

“All right. Ace and I will be here.” Capable said coolly. Max nodded and turned his heel on them to leave.

“Hey, Bloodbag.”

Max paused, shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn back. 

Capable shook her head in disapproval. “Call him Max, Ace. That's his name.”

The Ace heaved a breath. “Appreciate the leg brace...Max,” the Ace said begrudgingly. “Works good, reliable.”

Max nodded, walking away without a backwards glance.


	12. Chapter 12

“Been talking to Furiosa lately.” Underneath the dome of glass, they sat together on a pair of newly built chairs set amongst a tangle of potted green plants, looking out at the bright blue sky. 

“So that's where she's been going at night.” Capable said thoughtfully. “You're the one she's been gathering herbs for.”

“She didn't tell you?”

“She tells us very little about herself,” Capable sighed. “Even now.”

“That's always been the way she is.” The Ace fidgeted, unaccustomed to not having something in his hands, some bit of work to be done. “So she told me you were in charge of the Citadel now, that you make the decisions.”

Capable shook her head. “It's a little more complicated than that. Though she likes to think of herself as merely the War Rig Imperator, Furiosa is still the real power behind the Citadel; she's the one who commands the respect of the War Boys and she's the one who keeps the peace. When we divided up the jobs, I was asked to help educate the War Boys and make the decisions that Immortan Joe would have made. I suppose you could call it long-term planning; policy. The goals for the Citadel in the _longue durée_ , as Angharad would have said.”

“How'd you get a position like that?”

“Back...when we were girls. Angharad, the Dag, and I. We had always agreed that Angharad would be the leader. Even after Toast, Cheedo, and Furiosa joined us, it was never questioned that Angharad would lead us, once Furiosa helped spirit us out of bondage. Angharad was strong. Proud and fearless, and by far the most educated; she knew the history of the world, knew cultures and people. She taught me a lot. You could say that I was her crew lead.”

Here, the Ace nodded; that was something he understood to his core.

“When she went under the wheels.” Capable paused at the memory, her eyes glimmering with tears, but she blinked hard against them, keeping her composure. “When that happened, I was left alone to carry on her burdens. She wasn't just our leader; she was our moral, spiritual core. And the unfinished work she left with her death was passed onto me. I remain to carry on her legacy.”

“She would have been the head of the Many Mothers?”

“No, we didn't really know much about them yet, not in anything other than name, really. Angharad was just the leader of our little circle. But when we took the Citadel, Furiosa...she might be the leader in the eyes of the War Boys, the War Rig Imperator, but someone had to make the big decisions, the kind of decisions that Immortan Joe would have made. And so it fell to me.”

“Why you?”

“Furiosa always respected Angharad. They were close. In some ways closer than even Angharad and I.” Capable's mouth tightened, faintly. “But when Angharad died, Furiosa never mourned for her; she just said to keep going. Furiosa was probably right, but I don't think I ever really forgave her.”

“It's the rule of the road, Capable. You go under the wheels, you're Witnessed.” The Ace said carefully. “Can't a body do anything to undo it. But why are you making the decisions now?”

“Everyone expected it of me.” Capable covered her face with her hands. “I think they thought that somehow I could carry on Angharad's legacy. But you know, and I trust you not to say this to anyone, Ace, but my legacy will be different from hers. She was strong, but I think that part of her would always be unyielding, unwilling to compromise her vision for the world. She would never have... _could_ never have accepted the War Boys and their society, their culture. I think she would have had it rooted out and cleansed, forbidden many aspects of it. But I don't think that's a solution that would work; they would resent us all their days if we didn't respect their beliefs. It would harden their faith into an armour of secret fanaticism. It's better to try to slowly reform their ideas, to put the questions in their mind they need to ask.”

“Like the questions you been askin me.” The Ace's eyebrows shot up; he had not thought that her questions were leading anywhere like this.

“Yes. Tell me, Ace. After all our talks, and now that you've had time to consider it. Do you really believe that Immortan Joe was the redeemer?”

The Ace paused before shaking his head slowly. “Maybe he was once; he did take us out of the waste and founded the Citadel. He saved us then, a long time ago, when I was just a little boy. Looking back now, a grown War Boy, I wonder how he and Danny survived when so many others didn't. He knew the waste. He was a hired gun. Why didn't he warn everyone about the storm? Why didn't he save people when they needed saving? If he had done something then, they could have lived. Instead, he was there to pick up the pieces after, all the goods and the supplies and the kids. Real considerate of him, gettin the haul after all the others died.

“Sure he did some great deeds, deeds that saved us from dyin in the waste. Shootin down maraudin Buzzards and road warriors, protectin us kids. But...more I think about it, maybe all these years he's been ridin high off a handful of deeds done early. More I think about it, more it seems that he was just doin what he should have been doin, except ain't a body around who does what they're supposed to and also somehow gets to play redeemer for the rest of their lives with their own tower and their stables of pretty breeders, gettin fat off of everybody else's sweat. I been workin hard all my life, ever since I was a little pup no taller than six hands. I done some pretty sharp deeds in my day on the rig myself and ain't no one gave me the title of daddy or god or whatever he was callin himself.”

“You see how good he had everyone fooled.”

The Ace nodded, his mouth dragging bitter around his skewed jaw. “So what's that make you now, Capable? If you're makin the big decisions he used to be makin, about what to do with the Citadel. Does that make you the new Immortan?”

“No. Not in the slightest. It just makes me Capable.”

 

Cheedo came in with Glory and a coterie of War Pups; the children sat down before the blackboard. She handed the chalk to one of the little ones; the child climbed up onto a stool and began to write, working out sums that she read outloud. The others called out suggestions and words of support.

“This what the book learnin is?” The Ace turned to watch. “That's Cheedo, right? The Dag's best mate; she talks about Cheedo all the time.”

“Yes.” Capable stood and gestured for him to follow her; they would continue their meet elsewhere. She took the Ace past the pianofuerte, to the little room adjacent that had once held two beds; it had been converted into a work space with a newly built chairs and a table, a vast assortment of books shelved all along the walls.

Capable glanced at Cheedo before shutting the door. “She learned to read and write a lot later in life. She wasn't like the rest of us; she was born in captivity and was never taught as a child. But it makes her a great teacher.”

“How's that work?”

“She knows what it's like to struggle and suffer in learning. To not even know what she doesn't know. I can't explain to a War Pup why a word is spelled correctly or why the numbers work out the way they do; it just feels right to me. But she understands, and she can explain it better than 'just because it is'.” 

“Who taught her to read?”

“The Dag, mostly, though Angharad and I studied with her as well. The Dag's a great reader; she's been through all the books in the Citadel at least twice, sometimes more.” Capable smiled faintly. “Even I don't have the patience to sit through all the books.”

“She's a rare engine, that one, more horsepower than meets the eye.”

“Yes, the Dag is an excellent person. But that's not why we're having this meet. You came looking for me,” Capable folded her hands. 

“Right, right. Been hearing rumors,” the Ace looked out the tiny window of the office. It was bigger than he remembered it; it looked to have been widened with a lower sill, and new glass panes put in. “Rumors that War Boys are mingling among the Wretched.”

“Of course. They distribute water and food, the wages of the workers and the upkeep of their families; I've been sending a crew down daily. It's a better and more efficient means than using the massive drains; that's just showy nonsense.”

“Who are you sending?”

Capable named the War Boys, and the Ace shook his head.

“Change 'em out.”

“Why, what's wrong with the system I have now?”

“Can't trust Revheads rankin that low to run anything that involves food and water. They're probably usin the Wretched to their own ends, makin 'em do stuff or trade stuff to get their vittles. Send a couple Organic boys down to do the business. If you want to keep the peace, have the lift Imperators armed to the teeth, but you can't let Revheads like the ones you just named run it. Bet they've been makin the Wretched trade for their food 'n water, instead of handin it out like they're supposed to.”

“Why would the Organics be more trustworthy?”

“They ain't got nothin to lose or gain; that's why you can let 'em take care of the food and feed knowin they won't be stealin more than a mouthful here or there. But Revheads, all Revheads, they wanna climb up the ranks, and they'll do whatever it takes to get ahead.”

“Like what?” Capable wondered.

“I heard they tossed the Immortan to the crowd. The Blo- ahem, that is, Max.”

“So?”

“So what happened to his gear? All the Immortan's stuff. His boots, his medals, his guns, his emblem...”

Capable shrugged. “Why would it matter?”

“You think that stuff ain't gonna be worth something? Some liters of water, extra food...worth something to someone who might think the gear's got some power to it?”

Capable's eyes widened. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“I got a bad feelin about it, Capable. Think we gotta root it out. Gotta go through everyone's kit, every car, every corner of the warren. Make sure no one's hidin any contraband.”

“They're not going to like it.”

“No one does, but it's not like that ain't been done before.” The Ace frowned. “Wait til Furiosa's back, so no one gets any wrong ideas. Get her to okay the work. Go in with the Imperators and have 'em make everyone turn out their pockets.”

“We don't...really have many Imperators.” Capable confessed. “Most died on the long run, and the remainder are merely guards, Imperators in name only. Not exactly like the fighting men that were Imperators before.”

“Well, then raise up some Half-life Nobles, or some Drivers, if you can afford it. I'll draw you up a list, give you some recommendations. You can clear it with Furiosa.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Let's make you an Imperator.” Capable smiled, taking the Ace's hand. “Our first Imperator.”

The Ace flinched. “You ain't callin me the Prime, not ever. Ain't no one ever gonna call me that, not while I can breathe. I ain't gonna be an Imperator.”

Capable blinked, surprised by his vehemence. “Ace, we need your help,” she said reasonably.

“I'll help, whatever you need. Except that.” The Ace shook his head. “Sorry, this isn't something you can budge me on. I'm glad you thought of me, but I refuse, and I always will.”

“Why is that?”

“I can't explain it proper.” The Ace looked out the window; the glass had a green and glazy tint to it, as if it was imperfectly melted, but it did the work it was created for, keeping out the wind and the dust. “I just can't be one. Maybe I've worn the white too long, but... All right, here's an answer that should satisfy: a half-life like me shouldn't be an Imperator. By custom, only full-lifes make Imperators. One lump is usually enough to cut you outta the running and I sure got more than one.”

“All right.” Capable gave his hand a squeeze anyway. “You'll do the work of an Imperator without the emblem. Or maybe we should give you a new job. Titles are important, aren't they?”

“Sure, I suppose.”

“Then...” Capable looked up thoughtfully, thinking it through, and as she considered her options, the Ace noticed that green potted plants were hung from the ceiling, framing the window. Tiny white flowers sprouted from the green, and he wondered if it was foodstuff or merely decorative. 

“Ace, I'm making you our Consul. First Consul of the Citadel.”

“Where's that put me in the line?”

“Equal to the War Rig Imperator, though not Furiosa herself, if that makes sense. Equal to what the War Rig Imperator's place in the line is. You'll answer only to Furiosa and myself.” 

The Ace gave her a shrewd look. “But not an Imperator. I won't wear the emblem. Don't care if it's the wheel sign now and not the brand. Never.”

“No, no emblem, I promise. You'll be parallel to the Imperators, perhaps, but not one of them. A third party. Someone who helps keep the peace and resolves disputes.”

“Not sure I can do that.”

“You've already been doing it. I've seen your work with the War Boys.”

“That's just setting them straight.”

“So that's what you'll do. Help keep us on course.” Capable said. “You know, this will lighten some of the burden placed on me. There is a lot of pressure from the others to reform the War Boys, as fast as possible.”

“Reform?”

“I'm not saying that what they believe in is wrong. There is much good that can be found in the cult of the V8. But I think you can agree with me that the worship of Immortan Joe is at best misguided.”

The Ace was silent for a long moment before he nodded slowly in agreement. “Hard to give up an old habit, especially one that's sustained so many people for so long.”

“I have faith that everything can be changed given time and patience. I see already those War Boys that are growing out their hair, have stopped carving marks on themselves, the ones associated with Joe like the brand.”

“You know some of the marks are for mourning, right? And others for strength.” The Ace traced the raised scar on his left cheekbone. “Lot of us put this on when Imperator Acosta died.” He touched his right and left biceps in turn. “Flames to strengthen my arms.” He touched his collarbone. “Wrenches to strengthen my bones, the one that broke, and to shore up the other one, so it'll stay strong.” He held out his arms. “Some of these are just accidents, like here, this one and this. Those are just shrapnel. But these other ones...” The Ace pointed to the parallel scars on the insides of his forearms. “Different crew mates, the good ones I want to always carry with me.” He named them, going down the left, and then up the right.

“I didn't know.” Capable stared. There were new scars too that showed faintly pink through the faded white; he named the last ones: Morsov, Slit, and Nux, the last placed dangerously close to the raised veins of his wrist.

“Lost a lot of good people over the years. Ain't much to remember them by once they're put in the farm...most times we don't even get to see 'em go in the dirt; Organics take care of all that. They're always with us though, keeping us alive with their death, feeding the soil to give us life. And living memory on our skin.” The Ace patted his forearm. 

“I'm glad...” She smiled faintly, and touched the mark that he had named for Nux. “That someone else remembers him too.”

“Ain't a body could forget him, not that they'd wanted to. Next time you're in the War Tower, look around. See if anyone's put on a scar over their nose, like the one he got, first time he almost made it to Valhalla. An old driving injury. That'd be the mournin mark for Nux.”

“And here I thought you hurt yourself by accident, working on the farm.”

“Nah. All my scars, I earned.” The Ace touched the crooked bridge of his twice-broken nose, at the new scar that ran over his face. “In remembrance of our little Nux, who was War Rig Imperator for a day.”

*****

The golden evening glow of the electric lamps inside the Vault welcomed Furiosa as she returned, still shivering from the washup, sore and exhausted from the long run. Softly, she stepped into the tunnel.

A note struck, loud, and it echoed through the Vault, the rich sound slowly decaying into dissonance as its overtones collapsed. It took Furiosa a moment to realize that the figure with his head under the hood of the music machine was the Ace; his white was almost completely worn off, but for a bit around his brand and some dabs behind his ears.

She tried to remember the last time she saw him without the white, and she realized she couldn't recall.

Without looking up, the Ace flashed the Dag a thumbs up. “Press the black.” 

The Dag sat at the pianofuerte, Cheedo leaning over her, slender arms draped over the Dag's shoulders. She pressed the next key, and another note sounded.

“What'dya think, Glory? Think we're on the right track with this machine? Tell me what piece comes next. Which parts match the new pin?”

Glory looked down at the clean shop cloth, studying the parts laid out upon it, and quickly handed the Ace two pieces. “The new pin goes in here.”

“Good work, nice job.” The Ace ruffled her dark, curling hair.

“I was told that I would be surprised when I returned,” Furiosa looked around, “But I didn't think I would be this surprised.”

“Ma!” Glory clambered up onto her feet and ran over to Furiosa quickly, clinging to her tightly before Furiosa picked her up, settling the girl against her hip. “Ma's back!” 

“Yes I am.” 

“Ma smells nice,” Glory pressed her nose to Furiosa's dark hair, damp strands of it falling around her ears. “Like fresh water.”

“Whenever we come back from the Waste, we have to wash off the dust,” Furiosa explained. “The dust is bad for everyone. So we try to keep our home clean and safe.” 

“I'm keeping things clean too! Keeping the parts together in order.”

“So I see.” Furiosa kissed Glory's cheek, taking in her sweet, fresh scent.

“Welcome back. How was the run?” The Dag asked.

“Good. Didn't lose a single Lancer,” Furiosa yawned. “I'm ready to sleep for a few days.”

“Is Toast all right?” Cheedo asked.

“She's fine. She shot down two Bandits on the way back. She went to bed already.”

“Aren't you going to ask why the Ace is living with us now in the Vault?” The Dag grinned, mischievous.

“Should I?” Furiosa met the Ace's warm gray eyes with a faint smile. “Doesn't he belong here?”

 

Furiosa went to bed soon after that, in one of the many small cells honeycombed into the second floor of the Vault, and the Ace couldn't help but notice that the road warrior went with her too.

“That...been going on for a while?” The Ace pointed up at the closed door.

“The Ace. Are you...jealous?” The Dag winked. 

“Dagwood!” Cheedo gave her a nudge. 

“Well, for the proper edification of the curious, the official story is that Glory started it. She wouldn't sleep properly without both her Ma and her Pa. Now...as for the rest...” The Dag winked. “The doors are quite thin around here.”

“Flowering Dagwood!” Cheedo was scandalized. “Really?”

“A gentleman never tells,” the Dag said primly.

“Hmm.” The Ace looked up at the closed door curiously. “Maybe gotta rethink this whole bloodbag situation...” he muttered to himself. “All right then, the lot of you, time for bed. Got a big day tomorrow.”

“Aww, the Ace. Do we have to?” The Dag teased.

“No arguin about it,” the Ace said, an amused gleam in his eyes. “Bed time for all War Pups, big 'n small.”

“But not without a story first, right?”

Cheedo whispered in the Dag's ear, and the Dag asked softly, “Why not?”

“Because he's...”

“Maybe a story's all right. Just a little one. If that's all right with both of you.” The Ace glanced at the unfinished work, and dragged the shop cloth with its disassembled parts under the pianofuerte to keep it safe and out of the way. 

“Please, I always like your stories, the Ace.”

He walked over, and though Cheedo shied at his approach, the Dag offered him a seat beside her on the bench.

The Ace stroked his fingers over the keys, unintentionally smudging the ivory. He wiped them clean with his shop cloth, or at least as clean as he could manage.

“Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a settlement of Engineers out in the west. These were folks who specialized in engines and electricals, in waterpumps and windmills, in solenoids and circuitboards. Folks who honored the engine and its deeds, the wheel and its perpetual turning. When the water turned bad, they decided they'd head east, for the mountains of Walhalla, a high green place where they'd be raised up and never suffer anymore. But the day before the big run, there was a little boy named Alex who was chasing a fast little lizard from one end of the settlement to the other. Chasing after him was his big sister who was supposed to have eyes on him. This big girl Frances, she was trying real hard to keep her little brother out of trouble as he ran from rock to barrel, bush to bush, chasing that fast little lizard, but you can't always protect someone, no matter how hard you try, especially when they're bone-deep stubborn...”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, detailed notes to follow, but here are a few to start:
> 
> "I'm crazy about you" is a double Mad Max reference, to the first two movies. They're Max and Jessie's unspoken words to each other, set to the tune of 'Happy Birthday', as was played by the music box.
> 
> 1 hand = ~7 inches
> 
> Coil is what I've been calling the Lancer who rides with the front escort of the War Rig in the movie (on the rust-red 'Elvis' car). He makes appearances in _Furiosa_ , _Fortuna_ , and _Vulnera_ as Furiosa's crewmate.
> 
> The German text that the Dag is singing is from the Brahms _Ein Deutsches Requiem_. The corresponding text from the King James Bible is: "Be patient therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord."
> 
> The War Boy Skew in this story, for anyone following _Vulnera_ , is a different, younger Skew than substitute War Pup trainer Skew.
> 
> [Turned A](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turned_A) is the universal quantifier and can also mean 'given any' or 'every'.
> 
> The wheel sign is a reference to the original symbol that the wheel shrine iconography drew upon; in essence it is a woman's face, encircled by flames for hair, set in a wheel. It references to the sun and moon worship that is part of the cult of the V8, and the Rota Fortunae -- the wheel of fortune. The Immortan Joe brand hijacks elements of that iconography. The face changed over time into a skull after the historic run in _Rota_ that killed most of the original settlers. The original wheelsign is often replicated in the doll-faced steering wheels of many cars.
> 
> There are two distinct religions – the cult of the V8 and the cult of the Immortan Joe, that were roughly fused into a new syncretic faith. The former is more of a personal, household religion, and the latter was the state religion. Capable has been encouraging the return to the original cult of the V8, to supplant the cult of the Immortan Joe with a more traditional faith, though that is being blended with Vuvalini beliefs and the various beliefs of individuals.


End file.
